


Dolores Incarnate

by MiriamKenneath



Category: Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs) - Algernon Charles Swinburne
Genre: Masochism, Multi, Painful Sex, Religious Rites, Sex Magic, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 02:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20592950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriamKenneath/pseuds/MiriamKenneath
Summary: She has been laid out on top of the altar. She is naked. Her hands and feet are bound. The restraints are loose, pure formality. She has agreed to this; her reasons are her own. The outcome, however, belongs to everyone.The worshipers, her comrades and fellow connoisseurs of pain, surround her on all sides.





	Dolores Incarnate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruis/gifts).

She has a name, but it does not matter. Her personal history is uncertain, but it does not matter either. She is the latest of many to stand in this place of highest honours, but there were many who came before her.

The ones who came before her were varied. Some were young; some were old. Some were born practically at the foot of the Temple grounds; others hailed from afar, travelling over sun-scorched continents and vast, depthless oceans to arrive here. Their stories did not matter; her story does not matter either.

She has been laid out on top of the altar. She is naked. Her hands and feet are bound. The restraints are loose, pure formality. She has agreed to this; her reasons are her own. The outcome, however, belongs to everyone.

The worshipers, her comrades and fellow connoisseurs of pain, surround her on all sides.

A woman who is tormented at home sinks teeth into her right nipple; a man who is tormented at work does the same to her left. Another for whom the halls of justice could not serve kisses her cruelly on the lips; others dig sharp, remorseless fingernails into her throat.

They fill her as well, with their fingers and hands, with their tongues, with their cocks, with their _suffering_. She is penetrated, filled, full to the brim. She may be wrestling her bonds and writhing on the altar. She may be screaming. She is not free.

It goes on and on, continuing unabated for hours upon hours. After one worshiper has released their pain into her, another takes their place. It goes on and on, and the crowd gathered around her only seems to grow. It goes on and on, for the well of human pain knows no bottom; no one has yet plumbed its deepest depths.

Still, these worshipers – they try. _She_ tries.

Her mind has gone blank, a dim, blood-tinged haze. She has orgasmed countless times, but the pain and the pleasure are indistinguishable. She has been bitten and bruised and beaten, but she does not die. She cannot die. In the hands of her worshipers, she is deathless, eternal, transformed. The punishment of their pain becomes the reward of her pleasure.

A day passes, and then a night. When the sun rises once more upon the face of the Temple, it is done. The nameless woman laid out upon the altar is nameless no longer. She has become pain; she has becoming suffering. She has become _sorrows_. Seven sorrows, to be precise.

She is Dolores Incarnate.

The worshipers part like rushing water around a stone when the priests arrive with a shroud to cover her nakedness. They take her by the hand and help her to her feet. They place an iron crown of thorns upon her brow. Her lips have turned white and dry; her eyes are vacant and cold. She raises her arms high up in the air – a benediction – pain into pleasure into _power_.

‘Thou shalt live until evil be slain!’ the worshipers cry in unison.

‘And good shall die first,’ says the prophet of the Lady of Pain.

Dolores’ dark celebration begins. All within the Temple rejoice… Either that, or none do.


End file.
